Dans un café

In a café. That’s where it all started and it all ended: poor Mademoiselle Charlotte had been left alone once again, sat on the narrow and uncomfortable couch, facing that rounded glass filled with a high-alcoholic drink. She didn’t even remember what she had ordered but it didn’t matter anymore because she didn’t care; and she hated herself for it. She had always been the “special” girl, the “different” and “unique” one. Also “lunatic” and “insane”, but she preferred taking them as compliments: at least she was not like any other woman!

But now, sat on that wretched couch, facing her forgotten drink, Mademoiselle Charlotte was just like any other person in that café: lost but not confused, tired but not exhausted, angry but not evil. 

She didn’t care about anything going on anymore and pretended not to notice even when a gentleman sat just next to her, with a pipe between his lips, a bushy and dingy beard and wearing a wrinkly bowler hat.

Madame… are you all right?”

Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît.” She said, keeping on looking at the void.

Desolé. You look suffering. Are you sure everything is fine?”

Non, monsieur. Nothing is fine, but I would be surprised otherwise. Would you leave me alone now?”

The man stood up and angrily mumbled something about how her supposedly unsatisfactory intimate life was not a pretext for her to be such a hateful and unfriendly mademoiselle. Pas vraiment française.

Charlotte sighed and went back to her thoughts, which weren’t actual thoughts, but she’d rather desire them to be. She, educated and cultured, needed to think all the time. She was different.

Was she, actually? Julien, her last lover, had abandoned her just like he did to any other woman he had. That made her one of the many. They had met in that classy café a couple of hours before, he had told her those cliché excuses and, after an hypocrite kiss on her cheek, he left. She hated herself and she hated him. He made her realise that, after all, she was not so special.

@layalke 🐍

Nighthawks

Linnet looked down her whisky glass; she closed her eyes, those deep and weary eyes, as she drank. The bartender smiled at her and Linnet couldn’t understand if that was the smile of someone who had pity on her, a young woman of an unusual beauty who was being destroyed by the alcohol she kept snarfing and her obsessing thoughts, or if he was just joyful.

“Another one, please”, she said as she handed out her now empty glass.

Linnet had her head in her hands and was just about to fall asleep, when a young and handsome man entered the diner. He was wearing a nice fedora and an elegant suit, which made him look like someone who ran a business; he, whose name was Finley, went next to Linnet and sat on the chair closest to hers. 

She, on the other hand, didn’t even look at him, and only turned her head when he took her glass away and, instead, put his hand in hers. She faked a smile and went back again to her whisky glass.

“I missed you.”

“No, you didn’t. You just missed the idea of me being under your power.”

“I love you.”

She distanced her glass and a tired and false smile appeared on her lips. Then she drank the last sip, laid that whisky glass on the counter and went to the door. Finley stood up and looked at her on the doorstep. Linnet turned her face and whispered, in a charismatic but, still, emotionless way: “I love you too”. She walked out the building and Finley lost her again in the dark night that the city of New York had wrapped around them.

@layalke 🐍